


The Tango Trilogy

by LateStarter58



Series: Sarah's Smutty Notebook [10]
Category: British Actor RPF, Tom Hiddleston - Fandom
Genre: Argentine Tango, Dancing, F/M, Tango
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-14
Updated: 2018-12-14
Packaged: 2019-09-18 04:28:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16988049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LateStarter58/pseuds/LateStarter58
Summary: Bored on a work trip, a dance fan searches for distraction in a tango club and gets more than she bargained for...





	1. A Little Night Music

**Author's Note:**

> This story was inspired by hearing that Tom listed ‘flamenco’ as a skill on his RADA entry. You really need to listen to the tango they are dancing to at the club, Por Una Cabeza, by Carlos Gardel. I am not an expert in Argentine Tango, just a fan, so I apologise for any errors or inaccuracies. This was my first attempt at smut... if you want to know how their evening continued, you'll need to read the sequels...
> 
> Also, profuse apologies for the terrible colloquial French!

Be careful what you wish for, that’s the cliché, isn’t it?

Perhaps I should have considered that when I was praying for a little excitement this afternoon.  Was this what I had in mind? Not really. Possibly. This club was definitely part of my plans, and Patrice had said there would be single guys here. Of course, I had assumed he meant gay men, since that was what he would be looking for… I was wrong, _évidemment._

_Sitting in the stuffy room earlier I had tried to stretch my legs discreetly under the table, flexing my stiffening ankles. All the sitting around was driving me to distraction. I was into my seventh meeting in three days; I thought that if I had to look at another pie-chart or power-point, or worse still, drink another weak cup of coffee, I’d go insane. These annual trips are always a bit dull, but this one is turning out to be a prize-winner. It doesn’t have to be like this; when Pierre and I host our counterparts back in Paris we do our best to make it fun, or at least interesting. But this new London guy has to be the most boring man I have ever met. I suppose that’s what you get when there is a down-turn and the board gets scared: they appoint an accountant to run things._ Quelle barbe!

_The meeting after lunch had been particularly trying, and my eyes had drifted to the window. There was a good view of the building opposite but not much else, unless you got closer. Bond Street isn’t very wide, but it is most definitely where to be if you are selling high-end footwear. Much like the Saint-Honor_ _é districtwhere I manage our Paris store, people wanting quality and the right brands know this is the place to look. Dragging my gaze back onto the man speaking, I tried to focus on the droning voice. I shuffled in my seat and earned myself a frown from Pierre._ Zut _._

_I always like coming to London, despite the occasional crushing boredom. Dad is from Camden, so it it’s sort of like coming home. I usually take the opportunity to spend time with family whenever I am over, but not tonight. Oh no, I had other plans for tonight, and they definitely didn’t involve tea with aunties. Nor a drink in the hotel with Pierre and the others, despite his invitation. ‘Marianne… un verre?’_

_Nope. I was heading here._

_I bid my friends ‘Bon soir_ _ée’ and went to my room. It didn’t take long to change into the red silk print dress and sexy heels I had been saving. The shoes are not made by my employers but by one of their competitors, so it would not be politic for my boss to spot me in them. I snuck past the bar when I was sure the others weren’t looking and hailed a cab. My best buddy had given me the name of a really good tango club, and I was itching to get there._

Shoes might be my life and my living, but tango is my passion. Back home I belong to two clubs in my arrondissement, one for Wednesdays, and the other for weekends. All ages go along in France, couples and singles; it’s just about the dance, not a pick-up thing. But this place… _Ah bon_.

Now I’m here and _he_ is giving me that _look_. What we call where I come from a ‘ _baiser-moi’_ look. And we haven’t danced yet, not even spoken. I just wanted to get out, have some fun and dance, but this…

I’d be lying if I said I didn’t like it.

The first thing I heard when I came in was the band and damn they are good. I can see why Patrice loves it. Not members only but you need an invitation, so that keeps the non-tangoistes away. It was half-full when I arrived, a mix of ages. But the atmosphere in here, it’s sort of… dangerous. Is it my imagination? Am I projecting what that man over there is making me feel onto the whole club? What is he making me feel, by the way?

Naked. That’s what.

I avert my eyes, trying to distract myself by looking around. The room is simply decorated, just a few framed posters and photographs on the rich red walls, Rudolph Valentino, maps of Argentina, that sort of thing. The small band is on a low stage in the corner furthest from the bar where I am standing; a violin, a double-bass and an accordion. There is a mike so there must be a singer somewhere, awaiting his or her turn. Small tables and booths line the walls, with candles flickering. The lights are low, but not so dim you can’t see people’s faces, unfortunately, because I can see his all too clearly.

Now don’t get me wrong, I like male attention as much as any straight woman, as long as it’s wanted. But this is so intense I can _feel_ his eyes on me.  I know I am attractive, I work hard at it. It is part of my job, after all. I did my hair, I painted my nails, I perfumed my body. I chose my outfit with care, to get me noticed, including the way the soles of my Louboutins match the colour of my dress. I wanted to get asked to dance, _bien s_ _ûr_ , but did I want this?

Maybe. Who wouldn’t?

I don’t notice him when I first come in, so I don’t know how long he has been sitting there. It is only when I turn around after getting my drink that I become aware I am under scrutiny. The suit is designer; Boss? No, a second look and my practiced eye says Armani.  I try to play it cool at first, but he is so…unrelenting. And gorgeous, I probably should have mentioned that earlier. _Il a de la guele, n’est-ce pas? Sans doute, un tombeur…_ A ladies’ man. Like Casanova.

_Merde alors!_ Shouldn’t have had that thought, it has had some disturbing knock-on effects. I steal a quick glance in his direction and he has gone. _Putain._

‘May I buy you a drink?’

Now that is a voice you could bathe in. _Ouf!_ He hasn’t gone; he is next to me, speaking softly into my left ear. I turn towards that honeyed sound and see him close up for the first time. In my stilettos I am almost as tall as him. And I realise that I know who he is. He is Tom Hiddleston, or _Loki_ if you prefer. And he smells like heaven. If he is _un tombeur,_ well, no wonder.

‘A dry martini, thanks’

He smiles. ‘That accent…?’

Yes, I confess, I put it on. I am perfectly capable of accent-less English, but it never hurts to emphasise my French half with English men, I find.

‘…Française?’ I give a little nod, as if to acknowledge his perceptiveness. Flattery will get you everywhere, and I know exactly where I want to go.

The barman hands me my drink, I take a sip and then the band starts to play _Por Una Cabeza._

_Mon tango pr_ _éf_ _ér_ _é._

He holds out his hand and I take it. We walk slowly out onto the dance floor, joining a half-dozen other couples. He turns towards me, lacing the fingers of his left hand into those of my right. Giving me that same look as before, with his other arm he pulls me firmly against his body. A gasp escapes my mouth before I can stop it, and my heart starts racing. If I can feel it, he must be able to as well, we are so close. The pulse is thumping in my neck; I can hear it pounding in my ears. Our cheeks are touching. I hold my breath.

I have danced to this song a hundred times. But this is different. He moves his right leg against my left and we begin to move. Justasimple basic step but it feels like the first time. He leads like a champion, and I allow it. When we pause with the music, I find myself taking his cue as we change embrace to _apilado,_ he does _ochos,_ and then we move away again. Our foreheads are touching now, and when I look up, his eyes meet mine with an intensity which makes my pulse speed up even more. My whole body is tingling and I am amazed I am not trembling. The next break, and a _cruce_ step before we continue. Another pause, a turn and then I risk a _piernazo_. His eyes widen momentarily, but never leave mine. I run my left leg up his right one, as slowly as I dare. It feels like the most erotic thing I have ever done. I wonder at my boldness.

We move off again, and I am acutely aware that our legs are touching, and specifically that his right thigh is between mine. When we move fast, his arm across my back pulls me closer to him. My breasts are pressing into his firm chest. It feels …right.  Another pause, some _ganchos_ , another _piernazo._  He is ready for it this time and moves against me, swaying his hips just enough. My eyes move to his mouth. His lips are parted and his tongue runs across them, making me want to kiss them so much I ache.  I am finding it hard to breathe. He moves us in rhythm with the band, and I lose all sense of everything apart from the music and our bodies touching. More ochos and still his gaze doesn’t move.

It is like an out-of-body experience.

Now I know what you are thinking, but I am not a fool. I know that the Argentine Tango is probably the most erotic dance in the world, but you have to understand it has never been that for me, until tonight that is. My usual partners back in Paris are the gay instructor, my friend Patrice (before he moved to London) or one of the older guys who go every week. It is fun, friendly, good exercise and I love the music.  No one ever holds me this close or moves like this against me. This? This is the closest I have come to having sex with someone in public. I feel as if he has undressed me already, and the truly frightening thing is, the thing I really don’t understand is - I don’t care.

The song is almost over and I dread the coming of its end. He is holding me close again, and as the music slows I run my leg up his once more. He grasps my thigh as it reaches his hip, and I become aware that his breaths against my ear are as rapid as mine against his. The band stop playing and we stand still, chests heaving in the silence.

‘What’s your name?’ he gasps.


	2. A Little Touch of Tom in the Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> …This? This is the closest I have come to having sex with someone in public. I feel as if he has undressed me already, and the truly frightening thing is, the thing I really don’t understand is - I don’t care.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the requested sequel to A Little Night Music. There is some swearing but it’s in French (by the way, ‘baiser’ does not mean ‘to kiss’, rather something altogether… ruder).

_The song is almost over and I dread the coming of its end. He is holding me close again, and as the music slows I run my leg up his once more. He grasps my thigh as it reaches his hip, and I become aware that his breaths against my ear are as rapid as mine against his. The band stop playing and we stand still, chests heaving in the silence._

_‘What’s your name?’ he gasps._

‘Marianne,’ I whisper.

‘I’m Tom. Shall we get out of here?’ I nod, still breathless.

I collect my bag and coat, not allowing myself to think too much. He takes my hand and we leave. When we get outside I realise it’s still early; the street is quiet but he finds a cab almost immediately.

What _am_ I doing?

Well I suppose I know what I have agreed to, tacitly at least. _On va baiser…_

We get into the taxi. We are still holding hands, the only contact we have had since we left the dance floor. Most of my brain seems to be occupied with processing the sensations from that hand. I daren’t look at him; I concentrate on trying to control my breathing, which hasn’t really slowed down yet. But then I think about what is happening, and what is going to happen, and my heart starts to pound. He must be able to hear it; it is deafening me.

Because this isn’t me, you see. I don’t do this, I mean _ever_. _Jamais._ Or at least not since I was a stupid teenager who knew no better. But this man… from the moment I saw him staring at me across the club, I knew I had to have him. And judging from his eyes, he felt the same way.

Is that why I am doing this, because I think I can safely say this is a one-time only offer? _Bien s_ _ûr_ , I meet the occasional celebrity at work, of course, it is that kind of store, but no dancing and definitely no sex is involved in selling shoes to them.

And anyway, the thing is, no man, famous actor or otherwise ever made me feel like this before. This out of control. This… desperate.

 Like I said, I’m not bad-looking and I have to dress well for work, so I get attention from men. I’ve had boyfriends of course, a few.  But when Tom Hiddleston danced with me… _putain._

We haven’t exchanged a word since we left the club. The lights of London are flashing into the cab as we cross the city, throwing panels of brightness across the floor and us. We are sitting very close on the seat, almost touching legs but not quite. Only his right hand is on my left, the fingers never still. He is caressing my palm, occasionally running a finger up one of mine as I did my leg against his in the tango. I never knew such a small thing could be so arousing. I keep thinking about what else those fingers could do, and about his lips, and how much I wanted to kiss them when we were dancing.

We haven’t kissed yet. I think that’s because we both know that once we start, we won’t be able to stop.

The cabbie is talking to Tom, and he keeps up his end of the conversation without a pause in his adoration of my hand. I take the opportunity to risk a look at him. I start on safe ground with his shoes. I note with pride they are from our store. Not my branch, sadly, I’d know because we keep a record of customers and I would have noticed his name even if I hadn’t served him. No, must be from Bond Street. The Armani suit is fabulous, and fits him snugly. He could be a model; his long legs and lithe shape show clothes off beautifully. The trousers are tight, a little too tight in places _peut-_ _être_ ; he shifts uncomfortably from time to time. The shirt: white, fitted, unbearably sexy. No tie, and his neck… I think about my lips and tongue on it. _Putain._

I am losing myself, becoming incoherent. I don’t do this.

My gaze reaches his face, and I find the limits of my self-control. His profile is so perfect in the flickering streetlights, so delicious, so beautiful that my fingertips are caressing his cheekbones before I realise it is happening. He moans softly, almost inaudibly and the sound of it drives me to the edge of reason. His eyes close momentarily, his jaw tightening. He covers my hand with his, lifts it to his mouth and kisses the palm.

I turn away to look out of the window at the dark streets. I don’t know where we are; presumably on the way to his place, I didn’t ask. Now I am a little scared. I don’t do this, not here, not back in Paris. Yet I didn’t hesitate for a moment. I feel as if I stepped off a cliff when our eyes met in the club, and I am still waiting to stop falling.

The driver has stopped talking at last and Tom is nuzzling my hair. I can smell his cologne, spicy, expensive. Now it’s my turn to wriggle in my seat.

I do a quick inventory of what I have on underneath my silk dress; my best black bra and matching lacy shorts. They look good against my creamy skin, the ‘English rose’ complexion I inherited from my father; my near-black hair is all French, like Maman. Not my briefest underwear, but they‘re the most comfortable and modest for tango, which was all I had intended for this evening. I wonder what he will think when he sees them.

Bad idea.

_Tais-toi, Marianne!_

I try to think about something else.

I am out of control, _perdue. Qu’est-ce que tu fous, Marianne?_

I find my eyes drawn back to his and he is looking at me that way again, the way that makes me feel naked. I meet his gaze this time. I am afraid of how he makes me feel, of this unfamiliar lack of control, but I am not afraid of him. Earlier I thought he was dangerous, but no, he is thrilling and irresistibly attractive, but not dangerous. Except perhaps to my sanity.

The cab takes a turn a little too fast and _zut!_ I am thrown against him. We both gasp at the unexpected, uncontrolled contact. But neither of us pulls away. He keeps his hold on my hand, but he adjusts his position towards me. He puts his free hand on my knee. I see him, _feel_ him run his eyes up my body as I did his, taking it all in. He smiles and licks his lips briefly as his gaze passes where my dress is tight across my breasts. They are impressive, even though I say it myself. I imagine what he might do…

This is not helping.

He is watching me closely as his hand begins moving very slowly up my thigh. I find I have been holding my breath and I let it out in a long sigh. He smiles again as he stops his inexorable progress and I guess he has reached the lacy edge of my underwear. He leans over to whisper in my ear.

‘Those feel pretty, but naked is better.’

His breath on my neck feels like a kiss, and I close my eyes at the thought of his lips and tongue on me. I have given up trying to control my thoughts; I am wanton, out of my mind with desire.

The taxi draws up to the curb and Tom pulls on my hand as we get out. He pays the man quickly and he leads me through a gate and up to his door. My heart feels as if it will burst through my chest it is beating so fast. He fumbles with his keys and then suddenly he is pulling me through the doorway and inside.

I don’t do this…


	3. A Little of What You Fancy

The hallway is not in complete darkness; a small amount of light is leaking from the room I can see over Tom’s shoulder. I don’t have time to see more because he is growling at me. Yes, growling, softly but nonetheless unmistakably _growling._ It certainly draws the attention. As if he needed to.

I have stopped telling myself I don’t do this, because I obviously do… with this man.

I feel his breath is rushing past my ear, his hands against the wall either side of my head. I turn a fraction and my cheek touches his.  Rough stubble, then soft lips on mine, hands on me, body against me, legs pressing.

I was right: I never want to stop kissing him. I thought I was out of control before, but… _merde._ Mint, whiskey, sweet, male; he tastes as good as he looks and smells. His tongue runs along my lips, inside my mouth, over mine and I wonder how my legs are still holding me upright. My head is spinning, and I tingle all over. I press against him and feel how hard he is. How big he is. _Putain…_

Suddenly I can’t wait any longer. The foreplay started when our eyes met across the dance floor, continued in the tango and in the taxi. I am ready for him, and he sure as hell is ready for me. My hands reach for the buckle of his trousers and he moans loudly into my mouth. The sound reverberates through my body, causing a notching up of my desperation to have him inside me. My lacy black nickers are being tugged downwards and I step out of them, barely aware I am doing so. I need all my concentration to control my shaking, sweating fingers and get them to remove the last barrier between us.

‘Marianne’ he whispers in my ear as the tips of his fingers run over my labia. I shudder involuntarily and now it is my turn to moan. I watch as he puts the same fingers in his mouth to taste me. His eyes close, his jaw stiffens and he pulls my leg up onto his hip as he did at the club. Then his strong arms are lifting me up and against the wall; in my heels we are almost the same height. The moment is coming at last.

I still haven’t freed him completely from his clothes, and when I do so we moan together as I grasp the length of him, guiding him into me. I am so wet he slides in smoothly to the hilt despite his size and I feel as if the top of my head is coming off. I bite his neck hard as he begins to thrust, his breath coming in great gusts; mine is being forced out of me by the sheer power of him. My back is being driven into the wall with every blow of his pelvis against mine but I am only dimly aware of it. I am focused on the building tension in me, the tingling, rushing, blood-swirling feelings he is causing.

His movements begin to speed up and I realise he is growling again. No, not growling now: _snarling_ with every thrust of his hips. It is thrilling, and fitting; we are like animals on heat, no poetry, no words, no thought, just this overwhelming need. I can feel my orgasm getting close, and I can tell his is too by the noises he is making in my ear. He reaches between us and rubs his thumb over my clit and that does it. I shout his name, I feel myself clenching around him and the noises he is making sound more desperate. A few more ragged thrusts and he is coming too.

We stay as we are for a few minutes while our breathing slows a little. He is still inside me and the involuntary spasms of my cunt get responding twitches from his cock. It seems the night is not over yet.

‘Tom.’ I gasp.

‘Bedroom,’ he whispers and we part reluctantly, long enough for him to lead me upstairs to a simply furnished, very male room. The bed is made but he doesn’t bother with the covers, just pushes me back against it and unfastens my dress then my bra. He is looking at my body and smiling, so I assume it pleases him, and when I glance down I know for sure. Gently but firmly he pushes me down and kneels in front of me. I watch as he puts his long, strong, beautiful fingers on my inner thighs and pushes them gently apart. Leaning forward, he begins to kiss his way up one side and I allow my eyes to close and I lean back as I feel his warm breath on my sex. The kissing resumes at my other knee and again works its way towards my core.

By now I am groaning with frustration as I am desperate for him to give me what I need and suddenly he is, licking and sucking and biting and I lose all sense of time and space for a while. He hums against me then pushes two of those long fingers inside and I feel the orgasm rushing to my pelvis from every part of me. I think I must be shouting but I don’t hear it; my brain can’t process anything beyond what he is doing to me.

Before I come down to earth I feel him turning me over and pulling me onto my knees. He must be hard already because I immediately feel him pressing against my slit and I push back against him. I am greedy; I want more of that magnificent cock. He starts slowly this time, teasing me. I hear him grunt with satisfaction as he is fully sheathed inside me, and I wriggle impatiently when he stays still for a few moments, but then he begins to move. Slowly, tantalisingly, he starts to pull out. I moan again, he is driving me mad. I need him to fuck me, hard.

I decide to say so.

‘Baisez-moi, Thomas…’

He does. Suddenly he is pounding into me, holding my hips tight, his fingers digging in. I have no choice but to cling onto the duvet and ride out the storm. A third orgasm begins at the tips of my toes and fingers and converges on my core. I am feeling faint, I have never had sex this good and my body isn’t coping. My brain is shutting down. This time I hear my screaming.

He comes with a shout and desperate thrusts, and collapses on me. I realise he is still mostly dressed, whereas I am naked. I start to laugh and he joins me. I glance at the clock on his bedside table; it tells me I left my hotel less than 90 minutes ago.

Well, that accelerated quickly.  Still, what is that thing Dad says?  Oh yes.

_A little of what you fancy does you good._


End file.
